


Why?

by razboinicul_iernii



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Assets & Handlers, Dehumanization, Gen, Kid Fic, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, original child character - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 08:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6187217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/razboinicul_iernii/pseuds/razboinicul_iernii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier is ordered to protect an eight year old child. She hates it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why?

**Author's Note:**

> Some slight gore near the end, not very detailed but still present. Maybe a bit sad of a story.

"...extreme measures to be taking sir..."

"...misuse of their property..."

"...may have severe repercussions..."

Its eyes move but nothing else. It breathes. A red bird darts from one snow covered branch to another. Never the glint of sunlight reflecting off a scope. Never a puff of vapor, the breath of an enemy sat in cold places. Quiet. Quiet could change and it could change fast.

"I don't care! She's my daughter and I will do all that I can and if that means this thing has to be her watchdog, so be it! Let them harass me for 'misusing their property'! He will watch her until the threat is dealt with and I won't be talked out of it!"

In three hours, it is in a car. And then it is in a house. Its handler looks it in the eye and says, "This assignment is different. This time you are not to kill, you are to protect." It nods its understanding and receives debriefing. The target-objective?-is a child. Eight years of age. A girl. Brown hair and green eyes. Called Dunia. It is to follow her, everywhere, and protect her from potential threats. It is a complicated situation. It was not made to understand complicated things. That was not its responsibility.

The objective stares at it with big eyes and says she hates it. It says nothing because it doesn't know about hate or what to think of another hating it. Her father says it will keep her safe from bad men. She says it looks like a bad man. Her father turns to it and tells it to smile. It doesn't understand. The father shakes his head.

It is the first day and it follows the girl, day and night, room to room. Her tutors-she does not have handlers-glance at it with bigger eyes than hers and they perspire and stammer. She gets angry. It knows anger. Anger precedes corrective measures. Anger is to be avoided at all costs. She glares at it when her friends no longer wish to see her because it has ruined her life. It knows this because she told it. It knows this because she has slammed small fists into its legs and stomach and arms and it does not flinch because it does not hurt. It does not stop her because it does not care what she does as long as she is safe as per assigned parameters.

It is the third day and she stares out the window. She says, "I miss my mommy." And it says nothing.

It is the fourth day and she draws faces on a piece of paper on her desk. She looks at it and then looks back at her paper and continues to draw. She demands its attention and it looks down at her. She holds up the paper. There is one pink circle with brown lines and two green dots. This circle frowns. There is another grey circle with brown lines and blue dots. It bears fangs and blood drips from sharp claws. "That one is you," she says. It says nothing.

It is the sixth day and she cries. She glares at it with watering eyes. It remains, as always, in the corner by the door, staring out the window. "I hate you," she says. It says nothing. "Don't you care that I'm _crying?"_ It says nothing. "Answer me!"

"Yes, ma'am."

And she sniffs. "You have to do what I say."

"Yes ma'am."

She sniffs again. She looks around the room. She takes a box of crayons and more paper to the desk. "Sit here please," she says and points to the floor beside her. It does as she says. She pushes the box at him. "Take some and color with me." It does as she says and some is three and it leaves three lines on the paper, blue, yellow, red. She smiles but then stops it quick and glares at him. "You're not a good colorer." She takes one crayon and draws a circle. "Do it." It does, holding one crayon and drawing a circle. She puts two dots and says, "Eyes." It puts two dots and says, "Eyes." She smiles again and then makes herself stop. "Mouth," she says and draws it in red, an upturned line. It draws a red upturned line and says, "Mouth." She stops a giggle in its tracks. "Hair," she says and scribbles many lines in brown. It does the same and says, "Hair." And her laughter doesn't cut itself off that time.

It is the eighth day and she now goes to it in the morning and asks, "What's your name?"

"Designated code: The Winter Soldier."

"That's a dumb long name."

It doesn't understand so it doesn't respond.

She pulls on the leg of its pants and says, "You have to do what I say."

"Yes ma'am."

She looks around the room. It has monitored the space for eight hours and nothing has disturbed it. She whispers, on the tips of her toes, "Help me get to the cookies and we can eat them for breakfast."

It has never eaten a cookie. It is led to a kitchen, takes a plate from a countertop too high for her to reach, and peels back plastic wrapping. It holds them down in front of her and she takes two. It knows chocolate is contraband but she holds one to it and says, "This is yours." It has never owned something and a jolt runs through its brain demanding it to save the cookie as long as it can. But then she says, "Eat it." And it follows orders and the cookie-its cookie-is soft and chewy and sweet. "Don't tell anyone, okay?" It will not.

It is the tenth day and she tells it to sit with her on the carpet and she hands it a piece of plastic molded into the shape of a lion. She holds a piece molded into a bear. She makes the bear clash with the lion. It does nothing. She says, "You have to move it." And it does, up and down like she moves the bear. She smiles and her face turns fiercer as she makes a low roaring noise. "You have to roar. The lion roars." And it makes a low roaring noise and her laugh fills the room. "They have to fight," she says, tapping the bear's face against the lion's.

And it blurts out a word that it has never uttered before: "Why?"

And she waits and looks at the toys, one in its hand and one in her own and she says, "I don't know." It watches when she moves the bear's arm to tap the lion's head. "Because they have teeth and claws," she decides finally. "What else do they use them for but fights?" It understands.

It is the thirteenth day and the quiet dark of the night is disrupted by the rustling of blankets. Its eyes move to the bed. She sits up and rubs her face. Her breathing is erratic. "Where is my mommy?"

"I do not know, ma'am."

She whimpers and cries. Then she stands up and little feet patter on the carpet and her hands are around its wrist. She tugs and it follows her and she tells it to sit on the bed. It does and she throws her arms around its neck and cries into its chest. It doesn't move. She yanks on its arm and pulls it until its hand rests on her shoulder. She cries some more and it doesn't understand but it doesn't move.

It is the fifteenth day and she asks it its favorite color. It doesn't understand. She explains what a rainbow is while she colors one on a piece of paper. She holds the drawing up to it and tells it to choose a color. It picks blue but it doesn't have a reason. She tells it she will bring it blue flowers when spring gets here. She hesitates and looks at it and she says, "I don't hate you anymore."

It says, "Yes ma'am."

It is the eighteenth day and she giggles wildly with flowers in her hand. "Spring will come soon," she says. It sits perfectly still as she slides the stem of a blue flower over its ear.

"Why?" it asks because she is the first person to let it and it is compelled to take the opportunity.

She shrugs as she presses a flower into her own hair. "Because it has to come sometime."

It is the nineteenth day and it has dropped the flower from its ear seventeen times. It always retrieves it and returns it to its ear as she intended.

It is the twentieth day and there is fire and explosions and blood and screams. It holds her under one arm and she cries and cries for her father. She cries and cries when it kills a man by slicing his throat clean open. It retrieves the flower for the thirty-second time. It runs. A bullet ends up in its calf. She screams and screams and tells it to save her. It runs. Fire bursts into the corridor and shakes them down to their bones. It stumbles. Holds her tight. Retrieves the flower for the thirty-third time. There is a gunshot and its face is wet with dark blood. It ends the fight when it throws the knife into the last gunman's eye. She is silent and staring and her brains are on its face. It waits for further instruction. It waits for her to smile. It waits for her to laugh. It waits for her to tell it she hates it. It waits to retrieve the flower. It waits to find the cookies for her. It waits it waits it waits

Its ears ring.

"Soldier respond."

Its ears ring and its skin is cold.

"Not responding. The girl is dead."

"Why won't it answer?"  
  
"Could be anything."

"Soldier respond!"

It stares. It retrieves the flower for the thirty-forth time. It holds it tight in its metal fist and it responds, "Why?"

"God damn it. I knew it. Knew this would happen."

"Get it back into cryo, stat. Clean that shit off of it, too."

It is the last day. A technician in a clean white suit wipes blood and brain matter from its face with a damp cloth. It wonders which of her thoughts have been splashed onto its skin. It wonders what will happen to them when the technician tosses them into a red bag marked as a biohazard. The technician tries to open its fist and it snarls like a lion. He draws back quickly and mutters, "Screw it." It thinks of cookies and snow and grey circles and pink circles. It did not do enough. He did not do enough. He will never do enough to undo all that he's done. He's shoved back into the chair and he thinks of blood and bullets and fire and claws and teeth and why and why and why and

It is the first day. The cold lingers deep in its bones but it can move again. It unclenches its left fist and stares at the wilted blue flower in the palm of its hand.


End file.
